The monk with no head, from Piccotts End Lane

I can’t stand it here,
I’m going to the bar.
Spluttered my brother,
but the bar was too far.

I know a shortcut,
I’ll show you the way.
But when I saw where he meant,
I heard myself say…

My brother, you’re mad
Completely Insane.
Have you forgotten the legend
of Piccott’s End Lane?

You mean the monk
deprived of his head?
I’m telling you brother,
I don’t feel any dread.

So off to the Old Town
we went with a cheer,
For bawdy young ladies
and lashings of beer.

But as we returned,
loaded with drink,
the darkness closed in
and we started to think…

As I bounced off the hedge
from one side to the other,
I bumped into something
I prayed was my brother.

The more sounds we heard,
the more that we worried.
We heard a dog howl,
And onward we hurried.

Now and again,
we thought we were sunk.
How would we escape
that headless old Monk?

It took a long time,
to reach the top of the path.
My brother, relieved,
gave a nervous laugh.

You see my brother,
there was nothing to fear.
Aren’t you glad we went out
for a relaxing beer?

This is kind of based on a true story. For many years, my brother and I trekked up and down Piccotts End Lane in search of nocturnal entertainment. The ghost story is real. Allegedly, a headless monk has been seen along Piccotts End Lane many times and I have to say, it could be quite spooky along that lane, especially on a moonless night when the mist closed in.

Alas, we never saw the headless monk himself, thank goodness. But that long walk chilled my bones.